Manners, Sweetheart
by Freebooter 4Ever
Summary: At age 21 Effie Trinket becomes an escort to claw her way into the lifestyle of luxury and privilege she was raised to believe was her birthright. When she fights to bring her surly district mentor into line, Haymitch proves as determined as Effie but in the exact opposite way. Yet gradually they may still balance each other out
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

Little Effie never watches the middle of the games. She can't handle the bloodshed, and the fighting, and the disasters. She watches the beginning, devours all the interviews, and the pretty dresses, and the parade. And picks her favorite and closes her eyes until the end, when she cries if her favorite doesn't survive.

At age eleven Effie announces her intention to volunteer, and her dad looks at her with pitying eyes, as if she is slightly insane and tells her, "you can't pumpkin."

After the fiftieth hunger games, she recognizes the sole district twelve victor, having seen him once at the closing ceremony. His face, craggy and strong featured, and the dirty blonde hair he hides behind to cut off the rest of the world, these things stick in her mind. His name however, always escapes her. Her favorite that year is the little blonde girl, with hair as pale and fine as Effie's own: Maysilee. Effie watches all of her interviews and all of her training spots. Maysilee has the best outfits, poofy and golden as her hair, she looks like a princess. Effie wants Maysilee to become a princess, to live and be crowned on the golden throne. She even begs her father to take her with him to the Capitol for the closing ceremony. Her father may only be a mid-level employee, but his government job does have some perks.

Maysilee's death is the only death Effie ever watches during the hunger games. Her mother calls her into the living room to 'see the pretty pink birds' frisking around the blonde princess's head. The birds start to attack when Effie arrives in the room to watch. Her mother gasps and tries to pull her away, but her father separates them and sits Effie down, a hand on her shoulder, "she has to learn," he says. Though his voice sounds as if he wishes otherwise. Effie can't look away as the birds rip through her princess's skin and the screams slowly die down. Effie barely remembers the boy being there kneeling next to Maysilee and whispering unheard things.

She vows to herself she will never forgive the boy with the blue eyes and dirty hair for letting Maysilee die. And she never asks to volunteer for the Hunger Games ever again.


	2. Markers

**Markers**

She arrives on the morning of the 60th Hunger Games reaping. Her clothes are bright and her puffy wig puts him in mind of a cotton ball. Her accent and manners are the same as every other escort, except maybe a bit more precise. Once both tributes ascend the stage, the new escort glances at her new mentor and the thinly veiled apprehension in her face makes Haymitch groan. He mentally prepares himself for another couple of years slowly weaning this woman off the idea that her mere presence will be enough to transform district twelve from a lost cause into the pride of the Capitol. District twelve seems to run through more than its fair share of escorts. He rarely even bothers to learn the names. And this year, the two children can barely be considered survivors in their own district; the games will finish them off quickly. Nevertheless, Haymitch, the new escort, and the tributes, both under fourteen, malnourished, and neither appearing particularly clever, load onto the train.

In the dining car, without the cameras and an audience, the new escort doesn't bother to hide her horror at the tributes' eating habits. They grab everything in sight, by the handful, and shovel it into their mouths. The escort sits primly, eyes wide, mouth pursed, staring openly at the children. One of them nearly knocks over the orange juice decanter. The escort's hand shoots out as if by instinct and catches the glass jug right before the juice slops onto the tablecloth. She elegantly refills both the children's glasses and sets the decanter down closer to her. The tributes don't seem to notice. They eat and eat, trying to fill stomachs that have never been full before. The escort doesn't eat a bite, simply refills the glasses with orange juice whenever they empty. Haymitch doesn't eat either. He drinks. And his behavior grows progressively more erratic.

Eventually the children finish all the food on the table. They look slightly queasy. The escort's bright smile snaps on again and she ushers the tributes to their rooms, telling them about all the delicious delicacies they can try in the Capitol.

Before going to bed, Effie returns to the dining room. She hopes to find at least warm coffee and a roll to quiet her rumbling stomach. Instead she finds the mentor passed out on his dinner plate, covered in vomit. His breath blows little bubbles in the muck, and occasionally he coughs without waking. She nearly retches because of the smell. Suddenly she's no longer hungry. Instead she tiptoes over, despite little chance in waking him, and carefully tries to shift his body so his head isn't lying in his own sick and he is no longer in danger of suffocating to death. The last thing Effie needs is to be stuck in this district without a mentor. Better a drunk than nothing.

She gives up hope on the coffee and roll, and leaves the rest of the mess for the attendants to clean up. None of her Capitol training prepared her for this much trouble. And after observing the children at dinner, she needs to ask the chef a few questions.

Effie sails into the kitchen feeling like an avenging angel. The entire cooking staff swivels their heads toward her in shock, not accustomed to pampered escorts personally attending to the meal preparation.

"Who is in charge of the daily menus?" Effie asks, trying to sound more authoritative than she feels.

The head cook in a sleek white suit walks up to her in answer.

"May I have tomorrow's menu?" Effie requests.

"Miss, this isn't standard procedure..." the cook warns.

"Nonsense," Effie quips, "I am in charge of these tributes, the protection and guidance of their minds and bodies until I deliver them safely to the arena. Surely that includes the food going in their bellies."

"I suppose..." the cook starts.

"What nutritional philosophy dictates the menus?" Effie asks.

"We use only nutritionally dense foods, and no more than exactly the caloric intake estimated for their age, in order to optimize their fitness and stamina in the arena."

"And that is all well and good for the highest ranking districts," Effie says gently, trying to avoid using the unofficial term 'career', "but these tributes are coming from a barbaric existence in twelve, near to starvation. It isn't healthy to reintroduce them to food so suddenly. Their stomachs can barely handle meat right now let alone a rich cream sauce."

"Do you want to be in charge of the meals then?" the cook asks, looking irritated at her implication that she knows more about his job than he does.

"Yes," Effie concludes, satisfied, "exactly."

The cook rolls his eyes, leaves for a minute, comes back, and dumps a folder in her arms.

"Thank you," Effie says demurely, "I will have new menu plans to you tomorrow morning." She turns on her heel and starts to walk out.

"Six in the morning," he calls after her, "that's when we start prep."

She gracefully inclines her head in deference and steps out the swinging kitchen door.

"Bucket," she mutters, "I need at least two buckets..." she opens the folder and leafs through the meal plans as she walks. And promptly runs smack into a large pillar that seems to come out of nowhere. The pages scatter. She drops to her knees to catch them.

"Sorry," the pillar says gruffly and without sounding like he means it. Except pillars don't talk.

She glances up to see the mentor leaning over her. He's surprisingly strong, solid as a column of concrete, even when sloshed. Her eyes travel down to see a mini keg of alcohol resting at his feet. He must have pilfered it from the kitchen while she was distracting the cook. She's beginning to realize this is typical behavior for him.

Her expression suggests he's the biggest disappointment she's been faced with so far. He apologizes again. For a lot of things.

"It's fine," she sighs, "I have to redo these anyway."

He doesn't offer her a hand, and she suspects that despite his strength, helping her stand might tip his balance and bring them both crashing down. She angrily sweeps all her pages into her arms with one movement and wobbles back onto her high heels.

"What's th'point?" the mentor asks.

"Excuse me?" she bristles.

"What's it matter what they eat," he says, "be dead in a week anyway."

"It matters," she says with forced calm, "because I intend to do everything possible to give them an equal chance in that arena."

He scoffs at her.

"And I expect you to do the same," she adds, "mister..." her voice trails off as if she expects him to fill in the blank.

He doesn't. Instead he hefts the keg of alcohol onto his shoulder and starts off down the train corridor.

He doesn't want to know her name.

He sees her a couple hours later during one of his late night wanderings. She sits at the edge of the female tribute's bed, holding the tribute's hair back while the girl throws up in a silver bucket. Haymitch closes his eyes and staggers on.

At three in the morning he stumbles into the sitting room and finds her again. Papers spread out across the floor, five different multicolored markers stuck into her wig like a pin cushion. Her long skinny legs are stretched out across the floor in a position that looks incredibly uncomfortable to him, but she's completely engrossed in her task.

He sighs and slumps into one of the cold leather chairs, "Do you sleep?"

"Do you?" she asks, eyeing him coolly from beneath her brows.

"Not when it's dark outside," he grins, trying to bait her.

She refuses to take it and continues to write notes silently.

He watches her work for a few minutes and then abruptly announces, "Haymitch Abernathy."

She straightens and actually faces him this time, "Effie Trinket," she says with a small smile.

"Word of advice," he says patronizingly, "don't get attached."

Her smile turns into a tight lipped line. She takes a deep breath and looks back down at her notes, as if they'll provide reassurance.

"It is possible," she says, "to be kind without becoming... attached...as you so crudely put it."

His grin widens but his show of teeth isn't nice and it isn't kind, "oh, sweetheart...if you think that was crude..." he trails off, leaving her mind to fill in the blanks.

She resolutely ignores him, spoiling his fun. In return he hums a popular ribald drinking song from the Capitol and downs his whiskey. Her back straightens ever so slightly. He is irking her, and he knows it.

She hacks a cough to drown out his humming, sticks the marker she was using to reorganize the menus in her hair, pulls out a new color, and resumes work.

He reaches over and plucks a marker out of the wig, "aren't these things a little...too analog for the Capitol?"

She turns to him sharply, fury in her eyes, "those were in color coded order," and rips the marker from his hand. She pats her head with one hand, analyzes the position of the remaining markers, and stuffs the recalcitrant one in the right place.

"You've got organization issues, sweetheart," he drawls, noting that she ignored his odd metaphor. Probably doesn't know the definition of analog.

"What, where?" she asks anxiously, her eyes scanning her careful notes for mistakes.

"Not what I meant," he says, shaking his head.

He relishes watching the change in expression across her face. Confusion, suspicion, sudden realization, and then her eyes narrow and her forehead scrunches up in a glare already becoming very familiar to him. He has a sudden urge to pull her up on the couch and kiss that pout from her mouth. The urge comes from nowhere, and shocks him. He tries to hide and suppress it, but it nags at him.

Her jaw juts forward in frustration but she swallows it bravely, "I'd appreciate if you refrained from spewing random insults at me."

"You make it so easy," he chuckles.

She watches him laugh for half a beat and then announces, "Do you know they don't serve dessert to the tributes?" her eyes pin him to the chair.

"What?" he is taken aback by the sudden change in subject.

"Earlier you asked me what was the point. And there's one answer right there. Those poor waifs have probably never tasted chocolate in their lives, let alone the other more decadent Capitol delicacies. I think they deserve at least a little indulgence before going into the arena," she says, making a final mark on her papers, "and I'll see that they get it."

"A last meal," he mutters darkly.

"It's hardly like that."

"It's exactly that," he snaps, "You're fattening them up for the slaughter...tempting them with sweets and treats...it's a wonder the capitol doesn't make a meal out of the tributes themselves when it's over. Serve them to the gamemakers."

"That's..." the markers in her wig quiver in righteous indignation, "...barbaric!"

"More barbaric than forcing teenagers to kill each other?"

"Yes!" She insists, "The games are fought for honor and glory, for opportunities these tributes could only dream about, opportunities that are there if they are only smart and resourceful enough to take them."

Her speech launches him out of his chair in disgust.

"What did I say?" She calls to his back before he can reach the door, "If I'm going to know how better not to offend you next time, I need to know what I said. I don't want to be an annoyance, I would like us to be friends."

"Friends?" He laughs.

"Yes, friends and colleagues who work together to..."

"To what? I've been at this mentoring stuff for going on ten years now, sweetheart. I have seen seven escorts come and go, some of them not even lasting the length of a single year's games. You are a blip on the radar. Nothing you do will change the fact that come next year there will be a new Capitol doll to take your place and two new pathetic, undernourished, undereducated children to be killed. Children who have been forced to learn a single trade and had all clever thought trained out of them, ready to die within five minutes of the gong going off exactly as these two will," at first he thinks she is staring at him in horror but then he realizes her gaze is directed slightly to the left and down. He turns. The male tribute stands there pitifully, nearly as tall as Haymitch but skinny as a stick, holding his silver bucket full of vomit.

"I was sick," the tribute says, pushes the bucket into Haymitch's arms, turns, and runs out of the sitting room. Almost immediately after the door slides shut, the escort brushes past the mentor in a swish of bright colors and perfume.

"I will deal with the boy," she orders, "you clean that up."

He does what she says. He washes the bucket in his bathtub. From prior experience of cleaning his own puke, he knows this means his room will smell odd the rest of the trip since he refuses to let the avoxes enter. Better the real stench of vomit and sweat than the fake smell of flowers and antiseptic. He takes the bucket back to the boy's room when he's done.

The door to the boy's room is already open. Haymitch can hear her voice tinkling out into the hallway. She's reciting a rhyme. About an old woman living in a shoe with too many children to feed. Haymitch recognizes the story, or at least the basics of it. Effie's version has been expanded, and her Capitol accent elevates the recitation to a performance far above a simple fairytale. Her voice goes up at the end of each sentence, making it seem as if nothing in the story is certain. Haymitch leans against the wall, hiding from sight, and listens until she finishes.

"Another?" the boy asks.

"You need to rest," Effie chides, "We have a big, big day tomorrow." Her voice is already tired and strained. And it's only been her first day officially on the job.

Haymitch slides around the corner of the door and peers in. She's sitting on the bed, propped up against pillows and the headboard. The boy is leaning against her shoulder, flicking the pages of the digital book on the tablet lying in Effie's lap. His attitude suggests that of a child half his age. Effie's eyes briefly glance towards the door. Haymitch hides behind the doorjamb. She sees him anyway.

"I will wake you for breakfast," Effie tells the boy strictly.

"'Night," the boy replies, covering his head with the down comforter.

"Goodnight," Effie calls. She's already halfway out the door. She shoves Haymitch aside and waves to the boy before gently sliding the door shut. Immediately her kind demeanor disappears. She glares at Haymitch, points one finger to his chest, turns her hand and hooks her finger for him to follow.

He doesn't appreciate being given orders. When she swivels on her heel and stalks off, he goes the other direction. She notices, unfortunately, and follows him instead.

"If you meant to make that boy cry his eyes out until I had to sing him to sleep as if he was an eight year old _child, _congratulations. You did your job well," Effie launches into her tirade the minute they are out of hearing distance.

She continues on in a similar vein for quite some time. Haymitch doesn't listen to any of it. He waits until she's nearly panting for breath before interrupting her to get a word in.

"Are you done?" he asks.

"I...yes," she is finally at a loss for words. Instead of talking she lifts her chin stubbornly.

She's a bit taller than him, though mainly because of her six inch heels rather than any natural height. He suspects nothing about her is natural.

She clears her throat. And he realizes he's been staring at her cleavage.

"Did you pay attention to any of what I just said?" she asks with a sigh.

"No," he admits frankly.

"Mr. Abernathy..."

"Haymitch," he corrects, "If we're going to be friends..." his tone is very sarcastic and she gives him a petulant look, "...use Haymitch. Mister Abernathy is...someone else."

"Thank you, Haymitch," she tests out his name, slightly uncertain.

"You're welcome, sweetheart," he says in return.

"Effie," she corrects.

"I know, sweetheart," he replies with a smile.

She gives up. Best to pick the battles she needs to win.

"You're wrong, by the way," she adds primly and turns on her heel.

"What?" this habit she has of catching him off guard is unsettling.

But she's already gone, walking down the hallway. She turns her head as the door to the next compartment slides open, "They're real." Her face is teasing and a little bit proud.

"I might need a feel to test that," he retorts.

"Not going to happen," the door slides shut behind her. But he thinks she might have been smiling.


	3. Strawberries

**Strawberries**

When the train pulls into the Capitol, the first thing Effie notices is cheering. She can hear it even from the table where she's eating breakfast. The tributes pay no attention. They devour their shredded wheat and bottomless array of fruit, a far simpler meal than last night's dinner, but still satisfactorily filling. Effie moves to stand near the window, not close enough to be seen, but close enough to observe the station and the crowds waiting below the platform.

"Children," Effie beckons to the tributes.

They turn to look at the escort, the little girl with powdered sugar from a strawberry on her upper lip. Effie briskly walks over and wipes the tribute's face with a cloth napkin. She pushes both of them to the window.

"Smile!" Effie instructs, "Wave! Everyone out there is waiting for you!"

An abrasive burst of laughter from Haymitch. Effie thought the mentor was still passed out on the couch, but apparently not. He is awake. And listening.

"They are," Effie encourages the tributes despite Haymitch's obvious disdain. She gives him a glare. The buy and girl awkwardly stand in front of the window, waving and grimacing.

Horrified, and realizing this isn't winning them any points, Effie shoos them into the waiting chamber by the train door. Haymitch climbs down to the platform first, and then the tributes, and finally Effie. They walk through the crowd along a path roped off by red velvet.

At the same time, another train rolls in across from district twelve's. This train is sleek, silent; a newer model. No rattling or the steady "chunk chunk chunk" whenever the wheels go over the tracks. Effie makes a mental note to demand a new train for twelve next year. The rules explicitly state all tributes must receive equal treatment in the Capitol. No special favors to rig the games, except by select sponsors. It's only fair. She finds herself glaring across the tracks in disapproval.

The people waiting on the platform turn to face the new arrival with a lot more excitement than they greeted twelve.

"Sem-prone-nia, sem-prone-nia," the crowd chants.

Effie recognizes the name. Another escort, a highly popular one, who worked her way up from district ten to district four in under three years. A feat unheard of in the history of the games. Everyone knows Sempronia's name.

A distant figure emerges from the opposite train and the crowd goes wild. The people start calling for the district four tributes. They bothered to learn the names of the tributes; career tributes.

"Trinket!" Haymitch calls to her.

She realizes she's stopped and staring openly at the escort from four.

She turns back around and sees Haymitch holding open the door to the underground training center.

"Coming," she calls. She takes careful, deliberate steps. She refuses to hurry, on principle. Anyway, she's not sure if she'll be able to go any faster than a sedate walk in these heels without tumbling over. She always dreamed of wearing glamorous shoes like these, but her imaginings never included the blisters and wobbling. The mentor sulks at her for the entire minute and a half she takes to reach him. She holds her head up high and smiles magnanimously.

They descend as a group into the underground cement tunnels leading to the stylists' prep rooms. It's a gloomy, foreboding introduction to the Capitol and not one Effie would chose for the tributes. She expected well dressed valets to throw open the front doors of the grand lobby she's seen featured so many times in advertisements. And music. And snapshots. And interviewers.

Her head is lost in the clouds, imagining the glamour, and she nearly fails to notice her young charges being directed down a different dank hallway than she.

"Now, hold on," she calls, lifting a finger and walking faster.

Two burly peacekeepers appear on either side of her.

"Excuse me," she says, irritably, "I must catch up with my team."

Instead of giving her space they take an arm each, nearly lifting her off her feet, and march her in the opposite direction.

"B..b..but...but," she sputters, watching Haymitch and the tributes disappear down the left hallway. Her two peacekeepers open a metal door at the end of the hall, half drag her through it, and the last thing she sees before the door slams shut is Haymitch's head quickly jerking back around to face forward as he stumbles in his half drunk stupor. He saw her. She knows he saw her. And he does nothing.

"I demand you let go of me!" she insists, wriggling, "What right have you to..."

They release her. She takes a small step away from them and straightens her sleeve. As tempted as she is to march right back to the tribute's hallway, she's unsettled enough to know she should stay put.

"May I inquire the reason for such a rude interruption to my schedule?" she asks.

"We were instructed to discuss with you the breach of protocol incurred two nights ago on the train," one peacekeeper says.

"What breach? I assure you, if the old mentor from twelve did anything improper, it was beyond my control..." Effie says.

"I'm speaking of the incident in the kitchens; the request to reevaluate the meals," the peacekeeper intones.

"Well," Effie huffs indignantly, preparing to do her worst. She has yet to meet anyone who can outsmart her in an argument. "I think..."

"You aren't being paid to think," the peacekeeper interrupts, "You are here to look pretty, and smile, and make people forget you are collecting children to die."

"I highly doubt anyone at the reaping could forget..." Effie says.

"Not the districts," the peacekeeper interrupts sternly, "Capitol citizens."

"Either way, this is irrelevant. Equal treatment until the arena, that is the rule..." Effie continues, feeling redundant. If she has to defend her decisions one more time... "Are you questioning president snow's rules?"

"There you are!" a loud, slurred voice hollers from the door, "Ya' know, I think, they've sent me the dumbest one yet," Haymitch barges in, clanging the metal door against the wall. He walks forward and clutches at Effie's shoulder, "I've been through seven escorts," he holds up his hand and counts to five on his fingers, "one, two, four, seven. And none of them were dense enough to get lost on the way to the apartment. Honestly, there's one corridor, how hard can it be?" He latches on to Effie's arm and drags with a bark of laughter

The peacekeeper stares in disbelief at the imbalanced drunken mentor pulling on his escort.

Haymitch tugs Effie closer and half collapses against her, appearing even more unsteady than she initially believed.

"Are you trying to get yourself killed?" He whispers in her ear.

She stares haughtily down at him in response. Haymitch throws back a loud self effacing sarcastic remark at the peacekeeper to cover up his whisper. And slowly presses against Effie until she staggers towards the door. Surprisingly, the peacekeeper lets them leave. The man must think she learned her lesson. Or that perhaps the attentions of a drunk were enough punishment for her actions.

Having Haymitch lean on her heavily the entire way down the corridor and the next certainly is a punishment. The man is as heavy as a sack of rocks. Not that Effie's ever lifted rocks, but she can imagine. He steers her toward the elevator. Once inside he slings an arm around her waist for further support. His cheek is so close to hers, she can smell the whiskey on his breath and she represses a slight shudder of disgust.

Honestly, no one in the Capitol would ever allow their breath to become so foul. Even if they drank in excess, they would always keep an ample supply of refresher pills handy. The ride to the twelfth floor is the longest she's ever endured. Including the trip up the highest tower in Panem to visit the all glass observation deck. And that was over a hundred stories high.

The elevator pings and opens into the lavish hallway of the penthouse apartment. As soon as the elevator doors close behind them, Haymitch releases her and stands on his own effortlessly. He strides to the liquor cabinet and opens a new bottle.

"Not nearly as drunk as you pretend to be," she observes dryly.

He ignores her comment. "This is the only place in the entire training center without cameras," he informs her, "and don't go spreading that around, I only know because I have very smart friends."

"Yes, and?" Effie asks.

"Which means I can tell you openly...don't be stupid," he says, "you'll get people killed."

Effie laughs in disbelief, "Maybe in twelve but this is the capitol, we're civilized."

"You got family?"

"Yes," she replies guardedly.

"Father, mother, brother?" he asks.

"All three..." Effie says.

"Thats who they'll go after if you step out of line," Haymitch explains bluntly, "I'm only telling you this because if I let you be stupid, I'm be responsible for another senseless death and I'm not having that. So, don't be stupid."

"I'm far from stupid," she counters. The minute the sentence is our of her mouth she recognizes how feeble a defense it is, "I'm merely enforcing the rules. Demanding they are followed to the letter. Everything is strictly lawful, of course. Fair. Not stupid."

"Fooled me," he says. He pushes past her, his glass and a full bottle in his hand, and walks toward his room, "If the tributes need me, don't tell them where I am."

"Haymitch!" Effie snaps, "How could you just...just...leave! We need to plan, we need to prepare to court sponsors, coordinate training, explain the importance of presentation to the tributes..."

He rounds on her, "You are not special, Trinket, no matter what the Capitol may have raised you to believe. You are not their hero, you will not change their fate or defeat the odds, or whatever sentimental crap Capitol stories spin." He shoves the glass in her hand, fills it with alcohol, and repeats, "Don't be stupid." And disappears into his room with the rest of the bottle.

Still annoyed and frustrated, Effie pours the drink down her bathroom drain. She doesn't want to admit it, but she suspects he's right.

And working with the tributes for the next few days proves it.

Sitting on opposite ends of the penthouse couch, Haymitch watches her watch the beginning of the bloodbath at the cornucopia. She doesn't blink, she barely reacts, except to fix her mouth in a small grim, disappointed line. She doesn't cry out when their male tribute's throat is slit. Nor when the female tribute gets a knife in the back. Her face remains calm; cold, heartless, Capitol. He starts to laugh, angry hateful drunken laughter. She looks at him then, with expressionless eyes. He tries to stand. She doesn't try to catch him when he pitches forward off the couch and passes out on the carpet.

But she does wedge a throw pillow under his head before she leaves to go to bed; a scruffy one made out of cheap acrylic, easy to clean, not one of the nice angora ones.

In her room, Effie turns on every light she possibly can, piles her many coverlets and pillows around her like a cave, curls up with her raggedy stuffed animal, and sobs as if she's as young as the tributes in the arena.

She feels a lot better the next day. Crying always helps. Purge the emotions for a clean, clear focus. This year's tributes already forgotten, she determinedly sets her hopes on next year's crop of recruits. She prepares herself to parade downstairs and befriend sponsors. Her clothes are impeccable, her wig straight, her makeup set. Perfect.


	4. Waves

**Waves**

Pretending to stare at the scoreboard, Effie purses her lips in consternation and turns away. Out of the corner of her eye she sees her target sponsor talk to the district Eleven victor, Seeder. Effie's finger slides across her tablet organizer, wiping the sponsor's name off the list. The sponsor is a wealthy heiress, keen on investing her money in underdogs and charity cases. With a favoritism to district Eleven, apparently.

Effie zooms in on the tablet and opens the sponsor's individual profile. She makes a few notes, turns it off, and slips it back into her neat, white leather folder. Her memory may be good, photographic in fact; it's what earned her the position as escort despite her other complications. But dealing with sponsors requires 100% accuracy. A single mistake can cost her district a lot of money. And she certainly can't count on Haymitch to remember.

She's beginning to realize she can't count on Haymitch for much of anything.

She glances up from the little table she's perched at in the back of the betting room. She casually scans the room, searching for a new target. Her tributes may be dead, but she can certainly garner valuable information about sponsors for next year's games.

While watching another sponsor talk with district Seven's handsome mentor, Effie feels someone's eyes on her. She looks up to find district Four's escort staring directly at her. The imposing woman, dressed in sea foam, walks very deliberately, very slowly towards Effie.

"Sempronia," the escort holds her hand out regally to Effie and inclines her head. Unlike Effie's brightly colored and stiffly sculpted wig, Sempronia's hair curls around her head naturally. Her dark skin, made even darker by foundation, contrasts with the blue eye shadow washed over her brows. White spray highlights the tips of Sempronia's eyelids and cheekbones like the caps of waves. Effie feels a slight pang of jealousy at the woman's obvious display of district pride. If Effie dressed as a coal mine she'd probably only end up appearing as grimy as Haymitch.

Effie takes the extended hand and nods in return, careful not to let her wig slip, "Effie Trinket."

"I know," Sempronia says, sliding into the seat across from Effie, "I also know you'll never receive that sponsorship." The escort's eyes flick subtly to the spot recently vacated by the wealthy woman.

Effie bristles at the comment and straightens her back, prepared to leave if necessary. She can't talk back to an escort of higher rank, but she can certainly leave.

Sempronia smirks benignly, "You're not going to have luck with _any_ sponsor; not as the representative from Twelve."

Effie opens her mouth to politely disagree.

But Sempronia gets her words in first, "I've been watching you this year. You're good. Intelligent, perceptive, stubborn, and not afraid of a challenge. I suspect there's a part of you that enjoys working for Twelve." Her smile broadens.

Effie's mouth continues to hang open unattractively, like a fish.

"However, your talents are being wasted," Sempronia produces a card, seemingly from nowhere, and dangles it in the air between two fingers, "This is my invitation to the exclusive Victory party given by the top districts at the end of the games," she opens her fingers and the envelope drops to the table, "I seem to have lost it. They'll have to issue me a new one." she holds Effie's gaze for a prolonged minute and then stands and glides away from the table in one smooth movement.

Effie finally remembers to close her mouth. She sits, frozen, staring at the envelope until she notices a peacekeeper making his way towards her. Effie slaps her palm over the envelope, slides it off the table and into her lap. She flips the folder closed and leaves the room in the opposite direction.

She doesn't breathe normally again until she exists the elevator on floor twelve. Immediately she yanks the envelope out, traps the folder between her arm and her body, and starts ripping through the expensive cream paper. She pauses at the entrance to the living room. Loud, booming voices seem to be coming from behind the dividing wall. She recognizes Haymitch, but the other male voice she can't place. Somehow she can't imagine Haymitch inviting guests over, and yet...

"Ooooh, wipe out!" the mystery voice gives a low, hearty chuckle.

Another person laughs in response. It takes Effie a minute to realize the second person laughing is Haymitch. She's never heard him laugh before. Not even in old interviews. She quietly walks to the door and stands in the threshold, watching. Haymitch and the aging victor from Eleven are lounging casually on the couch with three open wine bottles resting on the coffee table.

Effie sighs and struts into the room, ready to send the second victor packing. The last thing she needs is someone encouraging Haymitch's drinking, and mentors aren't supposed to visit other districts' apartments during the games anyway.

Haymitch hears the clicking of her heels and glances her way, "Oh, great." His voice is unenthusiastic.

"I didn't realize we would be entertaining tonight," she snaps, her hand on her hip.

Haymitch raises his brow, "We?"

"Entertaining in _our _penthouse, a place no one except those from Twelve should be," she continues.

"You better turn around and leave yourself, then," Haymitch grins lazily. He leans back in his chair and eyes her.

"You know what I mean," Effie retorts.

Haymitch just laughs at her and refocuses his eyes on the projector screen behind her, which, before today, had been playing the feed of the games nonstop. Now all Effie can see is a whole lot of ocean and sand.

Giving up on Haymitch, Effie turns to the other victor, "I apologize, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"Neither of our districts have tributes in the arena anymore," Haymitch mutters, annoyed now, "Lighten up. No one is breaking any rules."

The victor from Eleven watches Haymitch and Effie with an amused glint in his eyes. But before Effie can get her retort in, the man jumps up and extends the stump of his left arm towards her. She blinks at him in horror, having no frame of reference for such a situation.

"I should be the one apologizing," he says with a mischievous smile that lights up his entire face, "I failed to properly introduce myself. I'm Chaff."

"Effie," she says hesitantly. She reaches forward to take his left stump and shake, but he uses her distraction to pull her in towards him with his good hand and kisses her smack on the lips.

The first thing Effie's brain registers after Chaff steps away is laughter. Hysterical guffaws coming from Haymitch's direction. She glares at him. He's laughing so hard tears are threatening to spill.

Effie straightens her sleeve from where Chaff stretched it out, and deftly swipes her fingers around her mouth to clean any lipstick smudges. She tries to keep her breathing measured and even. She can't recall the typical greetings of district Eleven.

"Thank you," she says, although her voice is a little strained, "for the introduction Haymitch so rudely neglected."

Haymitch's laughter dies down to wheezing, "That's not a custom sweetheart. He simply enjoys kissing." His grin is smug and a little malicious.

Wide eyed and mouth pinched, Effie turns to Chaff for conformation of this.

"Don't worry _sweetheart," _Chaff places emphasis on the pet name with a teasing glance at Haymitch, "I just did what your boy over here only wishes he had the guts to do."

That shuts Haymitch's laughter up real quick.

This time Effie turns toward her mentor in shock.

Haymitch scowls at Chaff and knocks back the rest of his drink. He slumps further in his chair and stares at the screen behind her intently. She hears him mumble something about not ever wanting to kiss a Capitol.

"Well, I'd never kiss a drunk," Effie's eyes linger judgmentally on the empty bottles of alcohol, "So that settles that." she raises a hand to snap for an Avox to clear the coffee table...and perhaps bring a new bottle and fresh glass for her; after all, if you can't beat them, join them; but to her surprise no one is around to answer her demand.

"Where are the attendants?" she directs the question at Haymitch with an accusatory glare.

"I dismissed them for the rest of the evening," he says.

"I surmised that," she says, "but...why?"

"Because while Chaff being here may be perfectly legal..." Haymitch explains, "what we're watching...isn't."

"What?" Effie swivels around to face the projection screen.

"But everyone in the Capitol knows about it," Chaff adds, "except you apparently." He reaches forward and grabs a bowl of corn chips and starts snacking. The loud crunching grates on Effie's ears. She winces.

"If you're going to stay, would you sit down or move to the side?" Haymitch says, "You're in the middle of the damn screen."

Effie steps around the coffee table. She taps her shin against Haymitch's ankle repeatedly until he reluctantly takes his feet off the table to let her through. As soon as she's seated in the middle of the couch between the two victors, Haymitch defiantly puts his feet back up. Effie delicately lifts the last half empty bottle of wine and takes a sip. She settles further back into the plush couch with it, letting her butt sink far enough into the cushions so the seat properly supports her still very upright back. If she slouches in this dress, she will tear a hole in the seam for sure.

Effie feels Haymitch's eyes scrutinizing her and turns to him coolly, "Explain to me what this illegal program is. All I see is more water than I'd ever care to deal with." She takes another sip of the wine to prove she's there to stay.

Haymitch smirks at her.

"That would be the Pacific Ocean," Chaff answers cheerfully, "District Four, to be exact."

"Oh," she says, "I've heard of it, of course, but I've never actually been there. Seems terrifying."

"Calming, actually," Haymitch corrects.

"You've been there?" her tone is disbelieving.

"Once," he scowls.

She's about to ask, 'when?' but thinks better of it.

"And that," Chaff announces in a jovial voice that turns Effie's attention back to the screen: a boy grins into the camera, his face far too close to the lens, "is ten year old Finnick Odair."

All they can see is bits of him, a nose and mouth, eye and eyebrow, chin and neck, as he restlessly moves around. When he backs away towards the water, she can see that he is waving to the camera. He obviously knows he is being filmed.

"What is that strange board he is carrying?" Effie asks.

"Surfboard," Haymitch replies. He leans forward to watch the young boy run through the waves and paddle deeper into the water.

"He's the youngest, and most talented surfer out there today," Chaff booms proudly.

"And knows it," Haymitch smiles.

Effie observes silently. The two men add their own commentary to the surfing, using terms she doesn't understand. The boy does a dangerous looking spin on the crest of a wave that draws "ooh"s of admiration. Haymitch even grins again. Although the camera seems to be in a fixed position and the boy surfing is no more than a small blur on the screen, Effie is riveted. She can't help but wonder how often someone is hurt doing these stunts. When a wave crashes over the boy unexpectedly and sends him sinking into the water, she gasps and leans forward involuntarily.

"He's fine," Haymitch tells her quietly, his voice almost drowned out by Chaff's loud groans and complaints about how that was a perfect barrel and the kid lost it.

Sure enough, soon the boy's head pops back up, a tiny dot on screen, and he starts swimming back into position.

"See, his board is tied to his ankle so they can't be separated," Haymitch points out.

Effie nods, and sits back again, still unable to pull her eyes away from the screen. She feels a gentle tap at her left elbow. She glances over. Haymitch lifts his eyebrow and nods at the wine bottle. She passes it to him silently and he takes a long drink.

Meanwhile, on screen, the boy is trying to catch a second wave. This one is huge, tall, and looks intimidating. The boy ducks underneath the white foam and disappears from sight, making Effie cry out with worry. But next to her, Chaff bounces on his seat, calling out incoherent words of encouragement. He seems to recognize what is happening. Seconds before Effie is about to give the boy up for dead, he reappears out the opposite end of the wave. He smoothly rides the last, gentle crest and then drops into the water backwards.

Haymitch starts clapping. Chaff leaps from his seat and punches his fist in the air, "Now _that_ is surfing!"

"That was nerve-wracking," Effie chides.

Chaff laughs at her.

Haymitch nudges her arm with the bottle of wine. She wraps her hand around the neck of the bottle and drinks.

"And what part of this activity is illegal, exactly?" Effie asks.

"You drinking, probably," Chaff grins, "Are you even twenty-one yet?"

"Yes, as of last fall," she says petulantly, "but that wasn't what I meant."

"Technically, the historic surfing site known as Trestles is not a part of district Four," Haymitch explains, "Surfing is forbidden since it isn't actively productive in the interest of the Capitol. The commercial value isn't considered adequate."

"But enough people watch it that they turn a blind eye to enterprising young people who sneak out of district Four in their spare time," Chaff adds.

"I had no idea..." Effie says.

"The video feed comes from a surveillance camera buried in the rocks on the beach," Haymitch says, "They have them in all the districts."

"Surfing in Four," Chaff lists, "skiing in Seven, races in Eleven, hunting in Twelve..." he flicks through the channels.

"These _district_ people participating in this...they are going against the laws of the Capitol?" Effie asks, her throat tight.

"Yeah," Chaff shrugs.

As if it's nothing. As if... "They'll be killed!" Effie says, "Or worse, their tongues cut out...forced to work as slaves..." she clasps a hand over her mouth, eyes wide in fear.

"No one cares about a few people asserting minimal independence," Chaff reassures her with an eye roll.

"If any of them act up, they get thrown in the arena anyway," Haymitch says, surly, "Them or someone they know."

"The reaping..." Effie insists, "is random!"

Chaff guffaws. Haymitch sighs.

"I select the slips of paper myself," Effie continues.

"It's cute how naive you are," Chaff teases.

"Are you saying the reapings are rigged?" Effie asks, furious.

"Sometimes they are," Haymitch admits quietly.

Effie is so emotional all she can do is sit there with her mouth gaping open and closed.

Chaff laughs at her expression, "Is she always so uptight?"

"Usually she's worse," Haymitch mutters dejectedly. He pries the wine bottle from her grip and finishes it off. She hadn't even noticed how much she'd been drinking.

"Only," she says a little too shrilly and immediately forces herself to calm her voice to prove her point, "because _you_ bring the _worst_ in me _out_." she punctuates every syllable slowly in an almost sing-song-y way only a Capitol accent could.

Haymitch smirks back at her.

"Ahhhuh," Chaff says quietly. His eyes dart between the two young people arguing, as if measuring something, "well, I think I will head back to my own floor. And let you two get on with the fun."

"Oh...no, I apologize, I didn't mean to disturb your evening," Effie launches into a polite defense by default, and belatedly realizes how ridiculous it is after her initial interruption.

"You stay, she should go," Haymitch grumbles.

Her momentary embarrassment turns to outrage, "I am a Capitol citizen. This apartment is in _my _city. You can't order me out. You are the interlopers here."

"You've had too much wine, you should go to bed," Haymitch tells Effie tiredly.

She scoffs, "you've had more."

"Yeah, but you're a lightweight," Haymitch argues.

"Let's all watch something else; a proper, legal program," Effie suggest brightly, wrestling the control out of Haymitch's hand.

Chaff groans. Haymitch shrugs, resigned to his night not going the way he had planned.

"There must be something we can all agree on," Effie says fairly

"The Hunger Games?" Haymitch suggests, his voice mean and taunting.

"No," Effie says, a little too quickly and a little too harshly. She takes a deep breath, "No, anything except that."

"Already lost your taste for it, have you?" Haymitch asks.

She screws up her face at him in confusion.

"You _are_ an escort," Haymitch tilts his chin up and shakes his hair out of his face. His hands float up to his shoulders in a bad imitation of her own gestures.

"That's what you think?" Effie asks, "that…that I became an escort because I enjoy watching..." Her mouth falls open and she stares at him.

"Time for me to leave," Chaff interrupts hastily. He stands.

Effie stays seated, trying to process this new information from Haymitch. She doesn't do anything when Chaff exits the room, although the now familiar ping of the elevator closing signals that he's gone. Haymitch doesn't move either.

"If you think that way..." she says quietly, "...you must hate me."

Haymitch sighs and pushes himself to his feet, "All Capitol citizens enjoy the games. You're conditioned to."

"I'm not like that..." she protests.

"Your city, your apartment," Haymitch quotes her, "we're just the interlopers."

She takes a breath to say more but he shakes his head, sets the wine bottle heavily down on the coffee table, and shuffles off down the hall.

With the avoxes gone, Effie clears the bottles and glasses off the table herself. When she drops the bottles into the bin at the end of the buffet table, she notices a thin ticket resting on Haymitch's usual place at the table. Effie picks it up and realizes it's his ticket home. On a train scheduled to leave tomorrow. He must have made the arrangements immediately after their tributes' death for it to come so quick.

She tugs the cream envelope out of her folder and leaves the party invitation on the table at her own place setting. She's not sure why, except maybe a small part of her wants him to see it. He makes her feel so new and inexperienced and naive. Yet she's the one getting invites to exclusive parties. She's the one already making connections that could mean survival for their future tributes. She's doing something. And what is he doing? Spending all day getting drunk with friends and leaving on the first train home.

The invitation is mysteriously missing when Effie arrives for breakfast the next morning. She spent an extra hour on her beauty regimen, so perhaps Haymitch already came in and found it. As soon as she sits down to eat, Haymitch storms into the dining room, the invitation in his hands. He throws it on her plate, forcing Effie to hastily rescue it before the paper slides into runny egg yolk.

"You can't be serious," Haymitch says.

"About what?" Effie asks innocently.

"Exclusive victory party?" Haymitch says sarcastically, "For the top districts to celebrate how much better they are than the rest of us, and to decide next year's allies? And district Twelve's escort is invited?"

"Sempronia invited me," Effie says defensively, "She expects me to be there."

"I'm going with you," Haymitch decides.

"Not necessary..."

"I'm going," he repeats, "to make sure you don't do something stupid."

He locks himself in his bedroom for the next week and a half until the games finally end, only emerging for food and drink, and only when Effie isn't around. The train ticket home goes untouched. Without comment, Effie takes money from her own pocket to schedule him a new one. She's won this one though; he's staying. And he'll talk to those sponsors. She'll guarantee it.


	5. Eyelashes

**Eyelashes**

Effie never wears fake eyelashes. She's always been too afraid of accidentally ripping out what little she has to try. But Sempronia wears them, and Sempronia sets the style - so try Effie must. Her first attempt isn't going well. Everytime she brings anything, even a finger, up to her eye, she blinks. Worse than painting the most complicated eyeliner, or putting in colored contacts. She stops breathing for the minute it takes to carefully, finally position the first eyelash on her skin.

It sticks! And holds in place. She breathes a sigh of relief. She readies the second and brings it slowly to her eye.

A heavy knock on her bedroom door jars her concentration. Her hand slips, poking her eye with tweezers and making her swear a string of curse words. She hears the smooth swish of the sliding door opening and she regrets leaving it unlocked. She turns to face the intruder, although she can't see due to the blinding pain in her left eye. Her usually artful glare turns into a petulant squint.

"Oops," Haymitch Abernathy says sheepishly.

She should have known. She growls in frustration.

"I was worried about being late," Haymitch explains, "We only have an hour now, and traffic 'round here is unpredictable, and I know punctuality is important to you, and I thought..."

She laughs, "I promise you, we wont be late. We will get there in precisely the right amount of time..." she blinks rapidly until she can once again pry her eyes open enough to look at him, and is immediately distracted. "Oh Haymitch," she laments, "You can't be serious."

He looks down at himself.

"Striped jacket and corduroy pants?" Effie sighs.

"They're both brown," he says.

"Which is definitely not your color," Effie says.

"And already I regret trying to be considerate," Haymitch mumbles.

She squeezes fresh glue onto her second eyelash and applies it much faster the second time, motivated by her pressing need to solve Haymitch's outfit problems.

"Follow me," she says, "I will fix this."

She barges into his room and tears through his drawers, pulling out combinations of clothes that never would have even occurred to him. Every once in a while she shoves him into the bathroom with a new shirt, or tie, or jacket. By the time she's pleased with his outfit, nearly an hour has passed, giving them less than ten minutes to drive to the party.

"Still on schedule?" Haymitch taunts. He receives an agitated glare in return; the strength doubled by her false lashes.

They're late to the party.

Effie can't calm her nerves. Her hands fly around while she talks with excessive gestures. It gets worse when the car circles around the driveway and pulls up to the front of the venue. She can't seem to stop chattering. Until she steps out of the town car and stands in silence, staring. The architecture harkens back to the glory days of Capitalist luxury. Colored LEDs illuminate the two story windows and towering marble pillars. Eight feet tall crystal chandeliers glitter behind the glass doors.

Haymitch gets out of the car and moves to stand beside her. He places a comforting hand on the small of her back. The fabric of her dress is coarse, heavy with embroidery and stiff as drapes. He's surprised she can move in it at all.

"I thought you would be used to all this," he gestures to the hotel lobby.

Effie snorts, "As if." She smiles at his expression, "what, you thought spoiled little rich girls became escorts? Spoiled little rich girls don't do anything, let alone willingly rough it in the districts. Girls like me work this job to pretend to be part of this world."

He accepts this silently; although she can feel his judgment. She throws her shoulders back and pushes a curl of hair out of her face. They ascend the stone steps together.

"Is it worth it?" Haymitch asks.

"Ask me that again in a month," she replies.

She links her arm through Haymitch's before the valet opens the doors to the grand hotel. Haymitch raises an eyebrow questioningly, but doesn't pry her off. So she holds him tighter, pressing her shoulder into his.

"A sign of district solidarity," she whispers, as if it's obvious.

She clings to him while they walk through the lobby, and down the entire length of the hall. Her high heels sink in the plush carpet, and she's grateful for his steady strength. Other than the sound of her heels, the rooms are empty and echoing. In the distance, at the end of the hall, they can hear the sounds of a party.

She starts talking to fill the silence. She's not really aware of what she's saying, something about music, and the latest dances, and all her friends in the entertainment industry. All of it a cover to hide her lack of experience. To hide the fact that she can barely breathe from anxiety.

He stops in front of the arched entryway and tightens his free hand around hers. She turns to face him. His grip is strong and unrelenting. But he can still feel her shaking, her breast pressing against his arm with every breath, her eyes wide, her mouth tight.

"They invited you," he tells her, "Of all the escorts I had, and need I remind you there were many, none of them have managed that. You were invited. Stop worrying."

"I'm not worried," she says coolly, her eyelids lowering in an arrogant expression.

"Right," he rolls his eyes and pulls her into the room.

Their entrance is as glamorous as the one she imagined at the beginning of the games. With one exception: everyone looks but no eyes are on her. People stare at Haymitch as the two of them part the crowd. At first in shock, and then annoyance bordering on disgust. Effie's confidence falters. She releases her mentor's arm and steps away. Haymitch notices, both the stares and her sudden distance, and doesn't look too happy about any of it.

"I'll be at the open bar," Haymitch grumbles.

"Oh," Effie says, slightly disoriented.

He leaves her standing alone in the middle of the ballroom. She tries to surreptitiously search for Sempronia, who effortlessly stands out in a crowd, but district Four's escort is nowhere to be found.

For the rest of the party Effie largely finds herself ignored. Haymitch drinks at the bar while she makes the rounds. Every conversation she enters seems to mysteriously die out fast, leaving the participants to wander off in search of new companions. And no one ever searches Effie out.

Doubtful a promotion will come out of this party. Something inside Effie releases, a tension she didn't even realize was there, and she smiles over at Haymitch, who simply looks confused. She nearly walks over to him, ready to give up on networking, but a man intercepts her.

"Do you realize you're the most gorgeous woman in the room?" the man asks with a charming grin.

Effie blinks, startled. "I hardly think..." she laughs politely, "the most gorgeous, really?"

"Really," he says, keeping his gaze trained on her like some kind of beacon. He's tall, handsome, with a russet beard and green eyes.

She doesn't even know who this man is, "Thank you."

"You're very welcome," he gushes. He smiles like an innocent child.

She smiles hesitantly back at him and takes a sip from her drink to calm her nerves. When she imagined someone searching her out for a chat, this was not it.

"My name is Blight," he says.

"Effie Trinket," she returns, "escort."

"District Twelve," Blight offers, "I know."

"Yes," Effie confirms.

"Shame," Blight says, "Twelve is such a harsh district. Your style would do better against a more...lush background."

"Oh?" Effie asks.

"Wooden planks and green leaves, a natural setting," Blight describes with relish.

"And where would I find this natural background?" Effie forces herself to smile harder.

"District Seven," Blight states, "The beauty of the northern forests...could only be comparable to you."

She's blushing underneath all her makeup but she doesn't think he notices. She remembers where she's seen him before. He won the games nearly ten years ago.

"The forests are truly beautiful," she agrees and takes another drink. This might be her chance. Now is not the time for nerves.

"Do you like trees?" he asks.

"I adore trees," she assures him.

"What is your favorite tree?" he asks.

She finds herself blinking silently again, "I..." she doesn't know if this is a test or something else. She gives him the first word to come to mind, "mahogany."

"Oh, very lovely!" Blight says, "But you won't find any of those up North. I must teach you to appreciate the smell of evergreens, and the red bark of cedar."

"I'll gladly learn from an expert," Effie says.

"You must come visit," he takes her glass out of her hand and puts it down on a tray, and then holds both of her hands up between them. The gesture makes Effie nervous somehow. Too comfortable, too soon perhaps.

"I shall," Effie says, although she finds herself anxiously checking to make sure Haymitch hasn't moved from his spot, "You have little rustic cabins in the woods up there, correct?"

"We do," Blight says, "And I have a cabin myself. More of a log mansion, really. I could show you..."

Effie laughs to cover up her discomfort.

Meanwhile, Haymitch is staring. At the mentor from Seven and Effie a few feet away from the bar where Haymitch is drinking. Something about their conversation bothers him. Perhaps it's the way the mentor...Haymitch can't even remember the man's name, is more excited than he should be talking with the lowly escort for district Twelve. Perhaps it's because she's telling the man how much she loves trees when Haymitch has never once seen her spend time outside voluntarily.

Haymitch decides he needs another drink. But before he turns away, her head moves slightly. Her eyes meet Haymitch's. Hers are wide with nerves and slight apprehension, belying the broad smile on her face. Suddenly no longer interested in drinking, Haymitch starts toward his escort instead.

Someone catches his shoulder before he even takes two steps. He looks to his left and sees a glass of whiskey resting against his arm being held by an elegant hand.

"Haymitch Abernathy, I don't recall inviting you," Sempronia's voice is gracious yet cold.

"You invite my escort, you invite me," he growls, but accepts the proffered drink anyway.

"Your escort," she raises her eyebrows dubiously, "and the mentor from Seven seem to be getting along very well," Sempronia says.

"Hmmm," he refuses to acknowledge the woman's suggestion.

"It's in your best interest to stay out of these things," Sempronia continues.

"Why do you care?" Haymitch asks, "What's someone like Effie Trinket to you?"

Sempronia sighs, and casts a backward glance at the younger escort, "I suppose she reminds me a bit of myself at her age. She's going to go far. I can feel it."

"And you'll be first in line to take credit," Haymitch concludes.

"Unlike mentors, escorts must find work after their term ends," Sempronia says disdainfully, "and there is ample opportunity at the communications college."

Haymitch glowers at her implication of his easy life, but he swallows his angry words with a sip of the free drink.

Sempronia nods in the direction of the district seven mentor who is still holding hands with Haymitch's escort, "And perhaps someone the likes of Effie Trinket deserves a man who knows how to wield an ax properly." She smiles pleasantly.

As much as he hates to admit it, he loses his temper. Any reminder of his games, even a subtle jab, makes him see red. Sempronia meant to have him cower in fear, subdued and silent. But instead he smacks the empty glass down on the bar counter, marches over to Effie, and pulls her away.

Unexpectedly she doesn't seem surprised, and after a quick goodbye, follows him willingly. As soon as they are out of the party, she wraps both hands around his bicep and hugs his arm to her chest while they walk.

"Thank you," she whispers in the car on the ride back, "What you did was incredibly rude but...thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," he says.

"What do you mean?"

"You've been noticed."

The valet opens the car door to the training center. The two of them reach the elevator and are back in the penthouse within minutes.

"What did you mean, I've been noticed?" Effie asks.

"District Seven has taken an interest," Haymitch says.

"Yes and it'll probably come to nothing, thanks to you," she says.

Haymitch smiles wryly.

Suddenly she realizes, "You're jealous!"

"Ridiculous," he says.

"You are!" Effie accuses, "Why are you jealous, you don't even like me?"

"You don't like trees," he replies.

She shuts up. And has the decency to look slightly ashamed. "I didn't realize you heard that conversation..." she says quietly.

"I heard everything," Haymitch confirms.

"Well, maybe I do like trees," she says unconvincingly.

He laughs.

"You don't know everything!" she says.

"Know enough to know you'll learn," he says in his infuriatingly arrogant tone.

"Stop acting so wise! I'm only five years younger than you!" She declares.

"You think so?"

"It's a fact!" she states. Age is certain, set in stone.

He starts to walk away. She is sick of him walking away.

"I've seen things you have no idea about," she calls.

He looks back.

"Do not underestimate me," she says.

"Impossible," he says. She can't tell if it's sarcastic or not. But he's standing still, so she must be getting somewhere.

"I've altered your train schedule home," she changes the subject.

"You what?"

"Your friend Chaff lives in district Eleven, correct? The station for eleven is on the way back to twelve. We'll stop there for a relaxing weeklong vacation. I'm coming with you."

She smiles at him proudly as if he should be happy about this.

"I felt bad after cutting your night together short. I know he left the next day, since I didn't see him receive any party invitations," Effie adds.

"So you took seven more days out if my life to make up for it," Haymitch wants to laugh but he also doesn't want to give her the satisfaction.

"Seven days of relaxation," Effie says. She can sense that her proposal brightened his mood, even if he won't admit it.

"Fine," he says, "It's not like I have a job to get back to anyway."

Triumphant, Effie returns to her room to pack.


	6. Novels

A/N: sorry I was slow with this one, the holidays and work have been unusually stressful, back to weekly updating now hopefully. Love you guys 3

**Novels**

It's the third day of Effie's mini "vacation" she arranged for herself and as far as Haymitch can tell, all she's done is read her book and sip sweet tea while sunbathing on the verandah. Chaff and Haymitch sit in the gazebo with a chessboard and plenty of alcohol spread out between them; still able to enjoy the sun, but far enough away to avoid anyone else. Chaff's back is to Effie, but Haymitch has a pretty good view. This morning when she arrived, Effie dropped her lace dressing gown to reveal a string bikini underneath before she stretched out on a lounge chair and picked up her book. Chaff quickly noticed Haymitch's concentration was on something other than their game, turned around in his seat to see what the distraction was, and they both ended up staring.

"I like how she thinks taking a trip to bask in district Eleven's sun is somehow a great favor to you," Chaff snickers.

"Eh," Haymitch draws out a slow, admiring smirk, "in a way it is."

Chaff's eyes dart towards his friend suspiciously. "That had better not be serious," he warns, "You can't be serious."

"Of course not," Haymitch turns away from the escort.

Except now Chaff is watching Haymitch instead of Effie. And as soon as Haymitch's eyes slide ever so slightly to the right, Chaff throws up his hands in defeat.

"Shit!"

"What did I do?" Haymitch asks defensively.

"You know what you did," Chaff laughs. He's smiling, but he's shaking his head in worry, "You're going to get yourself in trouble."

Haymitch scoffs and takes another one of Chaff's pawns.

"Such arrogance. What did I teach you?" Chaff asks with a grin, "Don't. Give. Them. Anything." and takes Haymitch's last took.

"I haven't. I won't," Haymitch says, trying to focus on the game.

Chaff raises his brow at Haymitch as if he doesn't believe it.

"Look," Haymitch relents, "she's used to getting her way with everything. At least I can use that to come visit you more often."

"Yeah," Chaff agrees whole heartedly, "she's very good at coming up with convincing stories to _get_ _things_."

"Exactly," Haymitch nods, satisfied.

"Also known as _lying_," Chaff adds.

Haymitch groans and shakes his head.

"Don't listen to a word she tells you," Chaff warns.

"I won't," Haymitch protests.

"Yeah?" Chaff laughs again, "I'll believe it when I see it."

They stay silent for the next half hour as the chess game draws to a close and demands greater concentration.

"Checkmate," Chaff announces with relish.

"Fuck," Haymitch knocks over his 'dead' king dramatically.

"You really suck at this game," Chaff laughs, "Good thing we don't rely on your strategic brilliance for our plans."

"I already told you, I don't want to know," Haymitch twirls his King around on the table, trying a bit too hard to look casual.

"Nothing's happening anytime soon, anyway," Chaff smiles, "Just talk." He starts to set his pieces back up.

"I don't want to know," Haymitch repeats.

Out of the corner of his eye, Haymitch catches a glimpse of Effie sitting upright. His head involuntarily turns to look, which Chaff immediately notices of course. They watch while Effie stretches her back and then flips over onto her stomach.

Haymitch can sense Chaff judging him.

"You have to admit, she's got the perfect body," Haymitch defends himself.

"To your eyes, maybe," Chaff turns back around in his seat and sets up Haymitch's chess pieces while the younger victor is too busy staring, "Blind eyes."

"Oh come on," Haymitch says, "be honest."

"Not my type," Chaff informs him, "Besides, better to abstain from such thoughts. Causes less complications."

"So you've said. Many times," Haymitch grins, "Unlike you, I can't go so long without even a fantasy."

Chaff laughs, "as if Trinket could provide much fodder for fantasy. She's Capitol. It's all fake, anyway."

"No," Haymitch corrects, "She says it's real."

"Pull the other one," Chaff says, "And do I even want to know how you know that?"

"She caught me staring at her cleavage."

Chaff rubs his forehead in agony, "so you were lost long before I could intervene. Great."

"I'm not lost," Haymitch insists.

"Which you say so convincingly," Chaff says. He puts his hands on the table and stands up, "How about a bet? I'm going to go get more alcohol. And while I'm gone, you try to confirm that _everything _is natural, not just her breasts, and maybe you'll finally get your head back on right for the next game."

"I don't feel like losing at chess anymore," Haymitch protests.

"Then we can sit, drink, and shoot the breeze for all I care," Chaff collects the empty bottles in his arms, "Just go talk to her for a while. Get it out of your system." He walks off down the path leading to his victor's manse at the opposite end of the garden.

Haymitch knocks over Chaff's king in vengeance. And then rambles over to the verandah. Up close he sees she's wearing big pink sunglasses with leopard print rims to match her bikini. She tilts the lenses and stabs him with her big, blue eyes.

"What do you want?" she asks, her tone barely polite, obviously irritated at her solitude being interrupted.

He settles down on the wooden porch next to her, letting his legs dangle off the steps.

"Chaff's busy for a bit," Haymitch tells her.

"And so you had no one else to bother but me?" she asks.

"Yup," he says.

"How lucky," her voice is heavy with sarcasm. She makes no further attempt at conversation; not normal for her, from what he's seen in the weeks he's gotten to know her better. He glances over at her to discover she's buried her nose in her book again.

"What are you reading?" he asks.

She sighs and sets the book down on her lap, "a mystery novel. You probably wouldn't recognize it. Do you even read?"

"I'm a victor," Haymitch says, "What else do you think I do all day?"

"Drink?" Effie offers.

Haymitch ignores her snide remark and sneaks a peak at the cover spread across her mostly naked thighs. He recognizes it.

"It's the artist who killed the art critic," he says.

"What?" Effie says in shock, "Oh, but the gallery owner's wife...she..."

"Did nothing," Haymitch says, "Unless wishing someone dead is a crime."

Effie appears incredibly disappointed, "but that's so obvious...I was so sure..." she picks up her book, not bothering to save her place, and whacks him on the side of the arm, "you spoiled the ending. There's no point in reading the rest, now."

"You've got 28 other books to go in the series, don't worry too much," Haymitch says.

Effie huffs.

She flicks her sunglasses back over her eyes and stretches out again. She resolutely ignores Haymitch, pretending she's sunbathing all alone with no distractions. He sits silently, alternating between staring at his feet and watching her. Whenever his eyes flick towards her again, she ruffles her shoulders and wiggles her seat.

"Why do you need a wig to sunbathe?" he asks randomly when she's in the middle of one of her posture adjustments.

She pretends it's only a little birdie tweeting in her ear. A little bird with an extraordinarily low voice.

"Do you go swimming in that wig too?" he pesters her.

"I don't swim," Effie chirps, "I don't like water, remember?"

"You said you didn't like the ocean," Haymitch points out, "kind of different than the Capitol's pools. The training center has one, you know. Attached to the fourth floor. Heated water, sauna, hot tub, everything. Ever been there?"

"I've never been in a pool," Effie sighs, exasperated.

"Missing out," he says.

"Let me know when you're not there and I will go," she smiles at him.

He turns away from her with a slight chuckle and stares at the setting sun. Pretty soon she won't have any light to bathe in. The workers in the fields are finishing up for the day.

"Don't you ever get tired of it?" Haymitch asks.

"Of what?" she asks in return.

"This view," he gestures to the garden, and further downhill the fields laid out before them.

"No," she answers, confused, "why should I? It's a gorgeous view. Wait till you see the sunset..."

"But you're sitting here...relaxing; watching while all those people work," Haymitch points to the tiny bent figures moving along the rows of crops, "You feel no guilt? At all?"

"No," Effie says, "I'm on vacation. I'm not supposed to be working. I'm sure when they take vacation they don't work. Besides, it must be pleasant working under Eleven's beautiful blue skies," she sighs wistfully, "the Capitol so rarely sees clear skies, most of the time it's clouded over with rain."

Haymitch buries his face in his hands, "It's so much easier to interact with you when you're silent."

"But...then we wouldn't be saying anything," Effie protests.

"Exactly," Haymitch removes a hand and gestures to all of her without looking, "then you wouldn't ruin the fantasy."

"Fantasy?" her eyes widen and her voice is scandalized, "Under no circumstances should you be..." she can barely get the word out, for shame, "..._fantasizing_...about _me_."

Haymitch groans. She's missing the point, completely.

"_They_ don't get vacation," he says bluntly.

"Who?"

"The workers."

She sits up straight and stares at him, "What? Not possible."

He laughs derisively.

"You're wrong," she demands, "Everyone receives vacation time for a designated amount of time worked. It's the law!"

"In the Capitol, maybe," Haymitch says.

"But not in the districts?" she asks.

Haymitch shakes his head.

She shifts her body to rest her feet on the wooden porch, still staring at him. Though he refuses to look at her. Slowly she slips her dressing gown onto both shoulders and stands. She picks up her book, turns on her heel, and bustles away, probably back inside the plantation house where their rooms are. He fights the urge to turn around and watch her leave, and lets her go without much stain on his conscience.

When Chaff finally reappears and waves at Haymitch from the gazebo, the younger victor takes his time shambling back across the manicured lawn.

Chaff points down at the knocked over king and laughs, "Only way you ever win at chess: by cheating."

Haymitch grunts in acceptance.

"Only way you ever win at any kind of Games," Chaff winks.

The jab gets a small smile out of Haymitch. Chaff is the only person allowed to joke about that.

Chaff sighs, pops open a bottle, and hands it to his friend.

"You didn't find out, did you?" Chaff asks.

"No."

"You didn't even ask her."

"Nope."

"What were you doing with her for a half hour, then?" Chaff winks knowingly.

"Let's get drunk," Haymitch says mournfully.

Which they do. And next thing Haymitch knows, he's being woken up in the midst of bugs eating him alive. And apart from the delicate garden lamps and slight glow from the plantation house, the night sky is lit with hundreds of stars. Almost as visible as they are back home. He slaps at a bite on his neck, and shakes Chaff awake. After seeing Chaff safely into his victory manse, Haymitch walks back to his own room, feeling sadly less inebriated than he was earlier in the evening.

He hears a delicate, but very loud sneeze as he passes by the open library doors. A room conveniently placed near the main parlor allowing easy access to books for reading on the verandah. Knowing he won't be falling asleep again until daylight, he decides to investigate.

He peers down stacks and stacks of books, until in one corner he spies a table loaded with paperbacks. When he gets close enough to read the titles, he laughs derisively.

"Are you planning on finishing the entire mystery series before we leave?" he asks coldly, still rankled by her earlier determined ignorance.

Another sneeze, and the avid reader's knees accidentally bang against the table when she jumps in her seat. Effie's head pops out from behind the books, "Oh. It's only you."

"Don't sound so excited, sweetheart," he moves between shelves around the tightly situated table to see what she's reading.

She pulls a book off her lap hidden underneath the table and slaps it down on the wood surface. The book looks more like an encyclopedia than a novel; heavy and full of dust.

"What...?" he asks.

"Labor records. From the past sixty years in district Eleven," she says. She hefts a stack of pages and flips through them, "I've gotten through about twenty years worth."

"Find anything interesting?" he asks.

She sighs, "Yes. But I suspect you already knew that answer."

"Yeah," he says, "Chaff likes to talk."

"The workers are cataloged like cattle," Effie says, "with a thumbprint of blood next to every name."

"That's how they check identity for the reaping," Haymitch explains, "They do that in every district."

"With blood?" Effie asks.

He nods.

"Isn't that a bit excessive?"

"Need to make sure nobody pays someone else to take their place."

"Why would a person take another's place?"

"Do you honestly need to ask that?"

At first she thinks she does, because the answer escapes her. Then she thinks a bit and it slowly sinks in. She bites her lip and goes back to reading.

"Not a single day of vacation," Effie says, "Not even an hour. The few festivals are held on the national days of rest."

"Feel guilty now?" he asks with a teasing grin.

She tilts her head and shoots him a sarcastic look before returning to her reading.

He sighs and leans against the wall. It's peaceful here in the library; quiet, and warm, and smells like old books.

"Do you mind?" he gestures to the space between the wall behind her, intending to sit there.

"Not at all," she shrugs, "keep an eye out for peacekeepers for me. They've already been by twice. I don't think they believe my mystery novel excuse. Apparently Capitol citizens spending hours in the library is _not normal_."

Laughing, Haymitch slides down to the floor with his back to the wall. He leans his head against the marble and pulls out a flask he keeps in case of emergencies. Not enough to become drunk on, not even enough to get tipsy, but enough to take the edge off. He watches her work as he drinks. Her head bent far over her book, the hairs on her neck standing on end. A very light peach fuzz, almost like duck down, peeks out from underneath the edge of her wig. He wants to reach out and touch it to see if it's as soft as it looks.

Instead he closes his eyes and tries to fall asleep.

It's well past midnight by the time Effie finishes reading the entire records book. She hefts the book onto her hip and carries it back to the shelf. Effie brushes excess dust from between the bookshelves onto the book so it blends in with the rest and appears as if no one has touched it. When she returns to the table she realizes Haymitch is asleep.

"Haymitch," she says and nudges his ankle with her foot.

He doesn't respond.

She certainly can't leave him here like this.

"Haymitch," she says a little louder, crouching low in front of him, "Haymitch," she puts a hand on his shoulder.

He jerks awake, suddenly tense. His eyes focus and recognize her immediately, and he relaxes again.

"Go ahead and go, I'm fine here," he says.

"Haymitch, you cannot sleep here," Effie tells him.

"You'd be surprised how comfortable marble is," he smiles.

"I'm not leaving you here," she declares.

She groans and lifts his arm, positioning it over her shoulders and dragging him upward. It doesn't work, he's too heavy. Her attempts seem to amuse him. After a few tries on her part, he finally gives in and leverages himself up off the floor. She staggers under his weight, her ankles shaking in her high heels, and wraps her arm around his waist to hold him flush against her. Together they walk through the library and down the hall to their rooms. She gets him through his door and then he refuses to budge.

"Dump me on the couch," he points.

"There's a bed three extra feet away," she protests.

"Couch safer," he grunts.

She sighs in exasperation and tips him in the direction of the couch. He collapses on the cushions and lies where he fell.

"Goodnight, Haymitch," Effie closes the door firmly behind her without waiting for a response.

She's breathless, and not because she found half carrying him particularly strenuous. Her own fantasies are beginning to wander into dangerous territory. And it irritates her.

She doesn't come out of her room for the rest of the trip. She still orders extravagant meals morning, noon, and night, but she eats alone. On the second day of her seclusion before Chaff wakes up, he leaves a stack of mystery novels on the ground next to her dirty breakfast tray, knocks once, and walks away. Haymitch takes to sitting on the porch with Chaff, talking or drinking. Servants throw open the floor to ceiling windows along the hall, and Haymitch watches her door through the sheer curtains. It never opens, until the day they leave. He shouldn't feel satisfied by her guilt, but he does.

She still manages to avoid him on the train, hiding in different compartments until the very last moment when he's about to leave. She stops the interior door from shutting with her heeled bootie and grabs the sleeve of his shirt to stop him opening the traincar door. She shuffles into the small space, squeezing between him and the wall.

"Here," she pushes a ostentatiously decorated package into his arms.

"What is this?" he holds up a slightly deflated blue and grey ribbon with distaste.

"To be honest, I don't particularly care it you drink yourself into an early grave," Effie says bluntly, "But..." she sighs, "without a mentor district Twelve's tributes go from having a ten percent chance to zero. Probably forever."

"And this is...?"

"Thanks to a lifestyle of constant parties and overflowing bars, the capitol developed medications to ease the slow poison of alcohol in the bloodstream," she explains.

"It's illegal for district citizens to receive capitol medicine..." he says, unimpressed with her speech.

"Which is why I wrapped it as an unwelcome gift," she says, looking inordinately proud. She bats his hand away and straightens the bow.

Haymitch raises an eyebrow at her.

"I'll send a box once a month. Make sure you take them," she adds sternly.

"I'll program a reminder into my alarm clock," he says unenthusiastically and cracks the outer door open.

"And, Haymitch?" she offers hesitantly, as if afraid he will sneer at her. He pauses on the steps but doesn't turn around to face her. She takes this as a good sign, at least he's listening, "I will stay."

He snorts, rolling his eyes at the door.

Although all she can see is the back of his head and the tense line of his shoulders, She can sense his derision and immediately flies into defensive mode, "I had been planning on requesting a promotion, not even something big, just a leap to seven or six, but I can wait three years or so. I can...help."

"No need for the self-sacrifice, Sweetheart. You're not going to change anything, for better or worse. You're a pawn. Powerless. Just like them, just like me," and with that he trips onto the brick platform and staggers away.

He can't avoid her parting sentence though. In a carefully controlled, calm Capitol accent she chirps, "You may not _want_ my help, but the _children_ need it."

It's the first time since the start of this year's games that he has heard her refer to their tributes as children.


	7. Dresses

A/N: Getting this chapter out before I go to jury duty Wednesday, leave me some reviews for me to read after my probably very very long day tomorrow maybe? Lots of love my friends ^_^

**Dresses**

He's not answering his damn phone. Effie needs to confirm their schedule for the 61st annual Hunger Games, but for some stubborn reason he seems to be avoiding her.

So she arrives on the early train two hours before her scheduled appearance in the square, a package of Capitol medicine, illegal here in Twelve, smuggled inside her poofy shoulder pads. After a bumpy drive across old cobblestone roads and concrete full of potholes, she struts through the Victors village and raps on Haymitch's door.

No answer. Expected.

She tries the knob and discovers it unlocked. Stepping inside, the first thing she notices is the smell. It makes her cough and her eyes water. She anxiously stares up at the ceiling and blinks rapidly, willing the tears back into her head for fear of ruining her makeup. After that crisis is under control she surveys the room. A living room, with a central fireplace and in a worse state than her apartment before laundry day. Empty bottles everywhere, sticky stains cover every surface, clothes haphazardly draped on worn furniture, and everything stinking of alcohol worse than the worst dive bar she's ever been in.

It takes her a while to remember why she is here.

"Haymitch?" she calls hesitantly, starting to realize he might be embarrassed about her seeing his house in this state. But again, no answer.

She isn't brave enough to climb the winding staircase and explore the second floor. Instead she picks her way across the room to the kitchen, "Haymitch?"

No luck. She scoots by the leaning tower of garbage bags against the kitchen wall and continues her search in the hall. There is literally nothing behind the door that turns out to lead to a pantry. Empty except flies. She wonders what he eats. Especially what he could possibly eat to fill the magnitude of trash bags in the kitchen.

She turns around to investigate the end of the hallway and sees a pair of boots attached to legs lying on the floor across the doorjamb.

"Haymitch!" she cries, tottering over to his prone form as fast as possible in her heels. She gingerly kneels down, trying to avoid the pool of vomit he is half covered in, and shakes his shoulders. Her mind flies into a panic. What if this was the reason he hadn't been answering her calls. What if he was...

"Haymitch!" she chokes, brushing his hair out of his face and getting her hands sticky. Her fumbling attempts to wake him fail. She stands back up and totters into the bathroom, turning the sink on cold. Nothing comes out. Determined, she runs into the kitchen, kicking her heels off in the process. The sink there doesn't work either. Fortunately on the counter is a stein of some unknown liquid. She picks it up and returns to Haymitch.

Helplessly, she empties the stein on his head. He twitches, shakes his head roughly, and pushes himself onto his elbows, trying to twist around and see what woke him. He half rolls over on the ground, and then he sees her.

"Oh, joy," he intones joylessly. He rolls back onto his stomach and drops his head into his hands, massaging his forehead.

"I thought..." she's out of breath, can barely speak, still in the process of overcoming her sudden fear.

"That's a first," he retorts, "You, thinking."

"Nevermind," she says sharply.

He sits up to get a better look at her, "You were worried about me."

"I was worried about how your absence might affect the Reaping," she corrects, "which is in two hours, by the way." her eyes flick pointedly to his shirt covered in damp sick.

"No," he laughs, "no, you do care!"

"I care that you are not yet presentable for a Capitol audience," she argues, "when is the last time you took a bath?"

He starts to tug his shirt over his head, "When was the last time I was on the tribute train?"

"Seriously?" Effie stares at him in disgust.

"Water pipe burst," he explains. He succeeds in getting his shirt off and throws it across the hall. The shirt hooks onto the pantry doorknob and hangs there.

Now she's staring at him for an entirely different, and far more inappropriate reason. At twenty six years old, for all the drinking and seeming lack of physical activity, Haymitch Abernathy's amazing genetics maintain his trim waist and broad shoulders. Not to mention the muscles most Capitol boys have never even dreamt of.

Its distracting, to say the least.

He doesn't seem to notice her scrutiny though. He grabs her arm and uses her to leverage himself to a standing position. She stumbles slightly, but doesn't fall over.

"Why didn't you call to have the pipe fixed?" she asks, feigning further irritation to cover her momentary distraction.

In response he slumps his arm over her shoulders and leans more of his weight on her. He gestures to the kitchen wall, where a phone hangs ripped from its cords.

"Oh," she says, feeling exhausted already. That explains the unanswered calls.

"There's a well out back," he adds.

"Go throw yourself in that then," she snaps. She turns her face to glare at him and finds herself staring straight into his eyes. He's smirking at her. And his face is much too close.

"Good to see you," he says, only slightly sarcastic. He wraps his arms around her and nearly dumps his entire weight on her.

She staggers, but returns the hug weakly, "good to see you too," and pats his back; his very sinewy, very strong back with a light patch of hair right above his waist, which she felt when her hand accidentally slipped a little lower than it maybe should have.

Haymitch releases her from the hug and trips out the kitchen door to the backyard. Effie watches through the window as he pumps the well for water. By the time he finishes filling a bucket, she's fairly certain she has the lines of his back memorized. When he dumps the bucket over his head and the water cascades over his neck and shoulders, her mouth goes dry.

Shoulders. That reminds her. The medicine.

She hastily unzips the top half of her dress, slides her arms out of the sleeves and starts pulling the packages out.

Unfortunately he walks through the kitchen door at that exact moment. He shakes his chin length blonde hair back from his face and stares at her.

"I didn't get any on you, did I?" he asks.

She has never been more grateful for both makeup and undershirts, which are the only things hiding her blush and exposed chest.

"No," she says, picks the last package out of her sleeve and drops it on the counter, "I just needed a way to bring these to you without _arousing_ suspicion."

Probably a poor choice of words given the current state of her underwear, but she's having trouble thinking clearly. She swallows any other comments she might like to add, and shrugs her dress back over her shoulders. He takes a few steps closer to her, places one hand on the small of her back, and zips the dress up with his other hand.

"Thank you," she doesn't turn around to look at him, she doesn't know if she trusts herself not to do something foolish. Something embarrassing for her, and probably a new point to tease her on for him, plus strongly discouraged in the rules, and she really needs to stop thinking before she gets herself into trouble. But...

"I'm going to change," he leaves and she hears the wooden floor squeak under his heavy footsteps as he goes upstairs.

The noise draws attention to how silent the house has been. She doesn't actually know much about his life outside the games. She collects her shoes, and staggers around the corner to the base of the stairs while putting them on.

"Haymitch," she calls, "do you...live here alone?"

She walks around the room, examining the clutter more closely. Broken decorations, broken bottles, and trashed furniture. Nothing personal, nothing with even a hint of sentiment or family history. It was as if the Capitol furnished a house with items they felt a person from district Twelve was likely to want and Haymitch moved in without changing a thing.

"Haymitch...?" she calls a little louder.

Sudden clomps down the hollow wooden stairs alert her to his descent. She hastily gets out the way before he bowls her over at the bottom on his way out the door. He lunges off the front porch and the door slams shut behind him. Effie runs after him, very difficult to do in her heels.

"Slow down, please," she calls out, taking the front steps one at a time.

"Walk faster," he throws back viciously.

Her foot catches on the last step, a crack in the concrete, the perfect width to catch a spiked heel. She yelps and lands hard on the dirt path. Her hands, knees, and forearms suddenly sting horribly.

"Oh, fucking hell," she curses, pushing herself half off the ground with one arm. She tries to maneuver her feet and get up but her dress is too constricting. And if she rolls around too much she'll only coat herself with more dust.

Two feet come into her field of vision while she's distracted by her efforts. She looks up.

He's smirking at her, a mocking smile but with sad, sad eyes.

She huffs irritably and looks away.

A second later she's being lifted bodily from the ground and set back on her feet.

His eyes slide down her dress and back up, and then he's laughing. Huge, loud guffaws.

"It's not funny!" she hits him with her clutch, "The entire nation will be watching this afternoon, I'm going to be a laughing stock!" She reaches down to try and brush off some of the brown dirt covering the front of her dress. The attempt is useless.

"The color suits you," he says.

"Do you have anything I could borrow...?" she asks, knowing it will probably needle him.

Indeed, the laughter stops short. He turns away in disgust and starts to walk away. She totters after him.

"I knew it," she declares viciously, "you do live alone. No wife willing to put up with drunken antics and broken water pipes?"

Something changes in his posture, he turns back around, grabs her wrist, and drags her towards his house.

"What are you doing?" she has trouble keeping up with his pace.

"What you told me to," he says gruffly, "letting you borrow something."

After a couple steps, he gets tired of her lagging behind and scoops her up into his arms. She clings to his neck, deathly afraid he's going to drop her in revenge for her comments. And yet, there's a weirdly comforting and safe feeling as well.

He carries her upstairs and dumps her on a clean bed in an unused looking master bedroom. The bedspread is covered in a lavender spray print. She gets a rather close look at it after falling face first, he's not particularly gentle. For a second she's worried he's somehow read her more risqué thoughts earlier and has decided to act them out...but then he throws open a closet, revealing a neat row of a dozen or so dresses.

Effie stares at the clothes without moving from the bed. They're dusty and dull in color, and probably completely frumpy in shape.

"Uh..." she starts to say, feeling ungrateful because clearly he expects her to pick one, but she's suddenly unsure which will bring her more shame, a dust colored dress in the latest fashion, or a borrowed district outfit.

"My mother's," he says, grinning at Effie like a skeleton, "before she 'left the gas on' during my victory tour."

"Oh," says Effie, "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"You don't know anything," he counters.

"You're right, I don't," she says, "so tell me."

"You couldn't handle it," he sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

Effie knows he's probably right so she purses her lips in guilt and stays quiet.

"Does that answer your earlier question?" he asks

"Yes," she replies quickly. She realizes she can't borrow a dress, but for an entirely different reason than she originally thought.

"Well," he says, "Pick one..."

"They're beautiful Haymitch," she lies, "but I couldn't."

And then it's her turn to walk out on him. He catches up to her easily on the front porch, after she slowly, gingerly tiptoes down. She expects him to continue on ahead but instead he walks at her side.

"Wait!" she stops abruptly, throwing her arm out to force him to halt with her, "I have an idea."

He gives her his undivided attention without comment this time.

Effie gingerly stoops in the middle of the path and scoops up a handful of dirt. She slaps the dirt onto her poofy sleeve and starts rubbing it into the creases. When she moves on to the bodice of the dress, Haymitch averts his eyes. She's darkening the underside contours of her chest to make it look like more is there. Unnecessary, in his opinion.

"What are you doing?" he asks, staring at the sky impatiently.

"If I am going to be covered in dirt at least let it be artful," she insists while rubbing brown streaks into her skirt, "Help me with the back."

She straightens and turns away from him. He stares at her in slight disbelief, and then grabs a handful of dirt and sprinkles it down her back; deliberately not touching her.

She cranes her neck over her shoulder to watch what he's doing, "more!"

He chuckles a little despite himself and starts brushing dirt onto the dress. He runs a line down her spine, and curves thinner lines out from it, and blending them in at the shoulder blades.

"Oh, clever," Effie offers begrudgingly approval of his efforts.

"Stay still," he says. Now that he's started, he finds the work almost entrancing, like painting a sculpture. He hollows out the top of her hips with dirt, spreading it towards the front to combine with what she already finished.

"I'm...um...rather sensitive there," Effie says softly, "you don't need to do that part..."

"Sorry," Haymitch immediately takes his hands off her.

"No, the rest is okay, keep going on the back of the skirt," Effie says, turning away to hide her embarrassment, "please."

He does as she requests. Although, once finished with the skirt, he rubs dirt onto her backside with a little more enthusiasm than she appreciates. She turns to glare at him. He supposes he deserves it...that one was intentional.

"Fix it _appropriately_ Mister Abernathy," she hisses.

"What did I say about 'Mister Abernathy'?" He growls back.

"To use it only when you are being stubborn and I must remind you to act like a gentleman?"

"Wrong!" he fills in the creases of her poofy sleeves, trying to copy what she did.

"I think I'm done," she waves his hands away, "thank you."

She turns to face him, examining her dress, and then looking at him. Their eyes meet and she starts to laugh.

"I predict dust will be all the rage next year," he says.

Effie's eyes light up in pleasant surprise.

"Don't look so smug," he smirks at her, "I didn't say you look good. I only mean the rest of the herd will be too stupid to know any better."

Her grin disappears, but the light in her eyes remains. She tilts her nose at him and strides off towards the town. Haymitch quickly catches up to her and then slows to a steady, even gait that matches her pace. They arrive at the square late, but together.

Their damned morning hug though, becomes a tradition repeated every year. She gets to his house early, she wakes him up, he hugs her - if she's lucky he is in such a state of mess he rips his shirt off before he does so, and they walk to the Reaping as a team.


End file.
